We dance
as a tangle
of limbs,
knots rubbed smooth
and cut fresh off of our
tree like
I call myself willow,
and bend under your sequoia touch.

And I do not care
if no one was in the forest
when they felled us.

Because no one but us
should have to witness
the sawdust
split into stars
as my boughs kissed the ground
pulling up your roots,
and having your body meet mine.

We are natural galaxy of branches.
Our leaves like moons
as our trunks
one ‘round the other,
‘Love’ as sun.

And this is why trees have rings:
recycled promises
for all the things
they couldn’t say
when they were falling.
For the universe
of “I love you”s
that couldn’t be caught on the breeze.

Instead we make a bed of the forest floor,
pillows of sewn together leaves,
and pine needles as sheets.
Consider it lucky,
to have our downfall be due
to roots ensnared together
rather than by some
cynic yelling:


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